


A Burning Obsession

by amp_rs_nd



Series: Lack of Foresight: the Series! [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Apocalypse averted, Gen, Let Martin Blackwood burn things, Not happy but not quite sad either?, This is basically about how Martin enjoys burning things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amp_rs_nd/pseuds/amp_rs_nd
Summary: The night after Jonah's ritual fails, Martin rises from his slumber to do something he's been itching to do for hours now.There is just something so mesmerizing about a burning flame.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (background)
Series: Lack of Foresight: the Series! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143332
Kudos: 15





	A Burning Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> In chapter 3 of my fic Lack of Foresight, Martin mentions that he ended up burning Jonah's statement. I thought I'd try and write out what that might have looked like. Chronologically, this takes place between chapters 1 and 2, but it should still make sense if you haven't read the main fic.

When Martin sees Jon’s breathing finally slow to a heavy, stuttered, dreamless thing, he takes care to slip out of their bed as quietly as possible. The floorboards in the cabin are old and curl up at the edges and have a tendency to creak. Martin is particular to avoid treading on those he knows have it the worst as he makes it back out to the main room — he doesn’t want Jon to be awake for what he plans to do.

It’s not that he thinks Jon would stop him from doing it — quite the opposite, actually — but it’s a very personal thing, and Martin would rather keep this to himself. His own selfish indulgence. Jon will surely know in the morning, but for now the night is Martin’s alone.

He shudders. That wasn’t the greatest thought to have given recent personal struggles, but the worry flees quickly from his mind when he stumbles to the opposite side of the room and gropes through the dark until his hand clenches around a familiar packet of papers. He sneers on instinct and holds on tight as he can manage, pointedly ignoring the sharp edges cutting into his palm as he shuffles into the kitchen for what he knows will be in the second drawer.

Ever since Martin was a child he’d loved watching flame, sitting and keenly observing every flicker as the heat would lick down candle wicks until they were reduced to muddied ivory piles upon the mantle. In his adult years, he’s found that paper is a significant sensory improvement on top of that. Candles burn slowly and leave behind a clear imprint of what they were once they’re gone, but paper burns eagerly and eats and eats and eats away until there’s nothing left but ash and smoke. It’s a luxury to be able to be so wrapped up in the feeling of it all, knowing the mess won’t need to be picked up afterward.

Building upon that childhood obsession, burning things became a favorite past-time of Martin’s after the Unknowing. Something about the act felt therapeutic, and still does. Once Peter came in charge Martin would be sure to burn something every once in a while, partially to spite Elias for all the pain he’d caused but also to satisfy his own sick fantasies. It was never anything particularly significant he went for: on the worst days he’d delegate to the discredited pile, knowing he was in a mood to blaze through entire stacks and not wanting to go too overboard. He kept this up until the Flesh attacked and Martin finally figured he wouldn’t be very useful as he already was, aimlessly loitering around burning files. Sometimes when he worked for Peter he considered pulling out Jon’s spider-webbed lighter and going at the Extinction files, but he could never bring himself to commit. Such treachery seemed like a bit much, even for Martin Blackwood.

Now, Martin swallows hard as he flicks on that same lighter and props his elbow upon his knee, hovering over the dying embers of the cold stone fireplace. It was easier for him to physically burn statements when he was Lonelier, his devotion to the Eye being dampened enough for the act to not be as much of a struggle. Now, though, he finds that earlier difficulty coming back to bite him in the bum (or maybe it’s his own human nerves that are causing this hesitance). He swears softly under his breath and waves the pages of Jonah’s statement over the small flame, trying and failing to center the edge over the heat until he finally gets lucky and it catches on its own.

The pages catch hot, fire burning bright against Martin’s large, calloused hands. Words spill up to the ceiling in the form of feeble whiffs of smoke and crawl across the beams before sputtering and dying in the freezing autumn air. How poetic, Martin finds himself idly wondering, but the thought makes him stop and grimace. Poetic implies beauty, and there is absolutely nothing beautiful about the words written on those pages. In fact, Martin would quite like to believe that had he the devotion, he’d go so far as to never speak a single one of those words ever again for the rest of his life. It’s an impossible thought, albeit a nice once, and it’s enough for him to nod and allow himself to enjoy this just the slightest bit more.

Martin drops the blazing stack into the fireplace proper, pages curling inward similarly to the self-satisfied grin stretching across his face. There is some sort of high in this: a certain power that comes with this level of erasure, the act of rendering something so utterly eliminated. In his reverie, Martin kneels for moments more before rising and slipping the lighter back into place as if nothing changed at all.

Morning Martin will rise with the sun and admire the look on his lover’s face for a blissful hour or two. He will hold him close to his chest and will not let go until he whines for tea and biscuits, and so he’ll amble into the kitchen and pour a couple cups and rip a new package open far too loudly. Morning Jon will follow not long after and say something along the lines of safety and Morning Martin will grin as he always does and embrace him freely.

For now, though, in the dead of night, at a time he does not dare to name, Midnight Martin stands straight as an obelisk watching the last of Jonah’s testament flicker closer towards demise. He beams, eyes blank, and Midnight Jon makes no noise from where he still lies sleeping, blissfully unaware. Midnight Martin stays and watches for what must be hours as the fire gradually fades to blackness, its kindling screaming final desperate protests, and hopes against all hope that Jonah is suffering just as much and under similar scrutiny.


End file.
